


I Love You

by lunarlychallenged



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: F/M, how Race tells you he loves you, poor boy has a hard time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-16 16:53:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14815220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarlychallenged/pseuds/lunarlychallenged
Summary: Race has an awfully hard time telling you how much he loves you.





	1. Over the Phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot whiskey you downed for courage. Feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night’s clothes. Wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it.

Race was forgetting something.

There had been a plan, right? A something. It hadn’t started with a plan, he knew that. It had started with a drinking game. You had given him a fake mustache the day before, which he promptly stuck onto his TV. When he watched Arrested Development, every time the mustache lined up perfectly with somebody’s face, he downed a shot. 

He had gotten so drunk.

You should never have given him that mustache.

You.

What was it about you? That seemed familiar. He remembered something about you, and something about a plan. The plan had come after the shots, but he wasn’t sure where you came in.

Think, Race. Think. He would be seeing you later that day, in the class you shared at your college. He could always ask you what it had been, but if you weren’t actually involved, he didn’t want to drag you in. There had been times that he had drunkenly ranted about how great you were to the guys. If it had just been something like that, you didn’t have to know.

He grabbed his phone, wincing against the light of the screen in the dark of his room. Maybe he had texted somebody about you?

That search did lead to something: he had texted Albert the night before.

 

Race: Im gonna do it

Albert: do what?

Race: tell Y/N how I feel

Albert: now?

Race: friggin yes

Albert: friggin no. ur too drunk. dont do anything stupid

Race: done and done

 

Race frowned. He frowned at his phone. He frowned at the mirror in the bathroom. He frowned at his coffee. He frowned at the guy sitting across from him on the subway, though the poor man seemed utterly baffled about why. He didn’t remember talking to you. He didn’t remember telling you about how totally, recklessly in love with you he was.

He could call you, just to feel out how you were feeling. If he had said something, you would probably tell him, right? He called, but got your voicemail.

“Hey! This is Y/N Y/L/N’s phone, but obviously I’m not coming to the phone right now. If I missed your call, I’ll call back when I can. If I skipped your call, I probably won’t get back to you. Ever. Please leave a message after the beep!”

Oh. My. God.

That was familiar. That was it. That was you. That was the plan.

You had given him that mustache, he had gotten drunk, and he had decided to tell you how he felt. He had called you, but you hadn’t answered. He left you a message instead, undeterred by your absence.

“Y/N,” he had slurred into the phone. “I wanted to thank you for that mustache. It went on Jason Bateman’s face, like, thirty times. It was almost as good as it would be on your face. It would be great on your face, Y/N. I love your face. I love your everything. I love you, and I am going to McFreaking lose it!”

With that, a very pleased Race had hung up the phone. He had gone to bed, sure that everything was perfect now that you knew. Now, a very sober Race really was ready to “McFreaking lose it.” He was an idiot; he would always have readily admitted that. Now, however, he was an idiot who had confessed his love to the most perfect girl in the world, in the most ridiculous way possible.

He could call you again and leave a message, apologizing for his drunken self. Or he could try to tell you again, in words more fitting. Or, he finally decided, he would pretend it never happened. If you asked him about it, he wouldn’t lie. If you ignored it, he would go on as though he wasn’t the biggest tool on the planet.

 

 

That afternoon, you grinned at him when he walked into class. “You look like garbage, Race.”

He smiled shakily. “I got hammered last night.”

“Worth it?”

He winked at you. Play it cool, Higgins. Be yourself. “Isn’t it always?”

You treated him like always, and said nothing about the voicemail.

 

 

Race: Meg Ryan looks great with this mustache

Y/N: what are you watching?

Race: When Harry Met Sally

Y/N: that is the greatest of all movies

Y/N: I’m coming over

 

 

“You’re right,” you agreed. “Meg Ryan rocks that look.” You were sitting next to him on the couch, cradling a bowl of popcorn on your lap. Race wasn’t an idiot; he had his own bowl. He wasn’t sure what kind of person would rather share a bowl of popcorn than have their own, but he was not one of them. You had been over to his house before, so seeing you on his couch was not a novelty. That didn’t mean that he wasn’t having heart palpitations, but still.

Race hadn’t gotten out the alcohol. He had learned his lesson last time, and he didn’t need to say anything stupid to you now, when he couldn’t be sure that the two of you weren’t trying to fake being okay until you really were.

As though you were reading his mind, you gave him a sideways smile. “You know the drinking game with the mustache, right?”

“Yeah,” he replied, the picture of calm. “I played it the other night.”

“Jason Bateman?”

His heart sank. You knew. This conversation was happening. “Arrested Development.”

You weren’t looking at him. Some conversations were best had without eye contact, or any contact at all. “I know you were drunk when you left that message.”

“Word,” he agreed.

“I know that sometimes people say things they don’t mean when they’re drunk,” you continued. You were rolling a piece of popcorn back and forth between your fingers, squeezing it until it squeaked.

“Sometimes people do,” he agreed. He didn’t, not that night, but he would let you draw incorrect conclusions if it made you happier.

“So I’m not going to hold the whole “I love you” thing against you, but if you really do love my face, you should take my face out on a date.”

“Seriously?” Race was almost too afraid to hope. He wanted to take your face out to dinner. He wanted to have a do-over with his declaration of love, but only once he knew you would say it back. 

“Seriously,” you said. You were smiling at him, the picture of perfection, and all of the anxiety Race had been feeling since leaving that message spilled out. He huffed out a laugh.

“If you’re joking, I’m going to McFreaking lose it.”

“Nope. Do you want to take my face out, or what?” You ate a few pieces of popcorn, like you didn’t care, but you could see the way you studiously looked at the bowl. You were nervous.

“I really want to take your face out,” he said. He also wanted to hold your hand, and since it seemed to be a good day for getting what he wanted, he did. You smiled down at your intertwined fingers, and Race started to think over how he could tell you again without mucking it up.


	2. Into Her Lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2\. Sigh it into her mouth, wedged between teeth and tongues. Don’t even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. Maybe it was an exhalation of ecstacy.

He had you pressed into the couch, with your legs wrapped around his waist and fingers tugging at the curls at the nape of his neck.

The first date had gone well, so Race took you out on a second. A third. Over and over again he would ask you out, expecting you to say no, but you never failed to match his enthusiasm. When he wasn’t out with you, he was imagining taking you out. When you did something that he thought was amazing, he could tell you in person instead of boring Albert with the details. In short, dating you was kind of his favorite thing.

As much as he liked taking you out, this may have been his favorite date so far. You had just showed up at his apartment, toting a box of donuts, a gallon of chocolate milk, and an apologetic smile.

“I know this is sudden, but today was a day,” you said.

“A bad day?” He took the food from you, not sure if he was more excited to see you or the milk.

“A long day,” you sighed. “Wanna watch a movie?”

Race always wanted to watch movies. At the start, the two of you were sitting side by side with food in your laps. By the halfway point, the plates were on the coffee table. You had your feet in his lap so he could rub slow, lazy circles into the arch of your foot and the curve of your calf. By the end, you were lying front to front. Your head was on his chest, turned so you could still watch the movie. He was breathing in the scent of your hair, only half paying attention to the TV.

When the credits rolled, he tightened his grip on your waist. “Sorry about the day.”

“Don’t be. It’s looking up,” you smiled. You sat up a little to look at him. “Sorry for crashing.”

“I’d rather hang out with you on a bad day than hang out alone on a good day,” Race said. When you kissed him, his world exploded into a million pieces.

He still hadn’t come up with a new way to tell you how he felt. It was strange; before you started going out, he pictured the confession being something straight out of a chick-flick. Two friends, madly in love without having the nerve to say so. Now, he felt like if he said something, he would seem like a creep. He wanted to be the guy who sweeps you off your feet, not the guy who tells you he loves you after dating for a month. 

But now, with his teeth scraping against your collarbone and you breathing his name out like it was a miracle, he couldn’t imagine not saying something. He dragged himself back up to your lips, trying to catch his breath in the minute of separation. He always felt like he was trying to catch his breath around you, in the figurative sense. Now, though his lungs ached, he would choose you over breathing easily.

His heart was full and his kisses were sloppy. “I love you,” he breathed into your lips. The words came out on the exhale, without moving his lips. It was nearly inaudible, and since you didn’t say anything, Race assumed that you hadn’t heard. That was okay. He wanted to be sure that when you heard, there was nothing to keep you from believing him. Not alcohol, not desperation, not the heat of the moment.

He pressed the words into the column of your neck; into the cut of your collarbone. He traced hard little hearts into your hips and thighs. He murmured them into you, hoping that though you couldn’t hear them, you still felt them. 

Then it was just the two of you, laying together in a tangle of limbs, trying to catch your breath. Race was almost asleep; he was surprised he had stayed awake as long as he had. It was getting late, and the two of you had gorged yourselves on donuts. He was full, warm, and the best kind of tired.

“Race?”

“Hmm?” He hadn’t realized that you were still awake.

“I should probably go home,” you murmured sleepily. Your arms were still looped around his neck, holding him close.

“Stay,” he whispered back. You could leave. He would not blame you for wanting to, and he would not be disappointed if you did. It had been a great night, and he knew that this had to end before the next great thing could begin.

“Okay,” you hummed, and snuggled in a little closer.

He gave a sleepy, dopey smile. He could take you to his bedroom; maybe you’d rather sleep in bed than on the couch. But when you sighed a warm pocket into his shirt, he didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to break the spell that was almost tangible in the air. He would hold you on the couch, all night, until the sun rose and made other things matter again.

“G’night,” he said. His eyes started to drift closed, but he slowly opened them again when he felt your fingers twitch. You traced a slow, deliberate heart into the side of his neck, just like he had been doing earlier.

He didn’t need to say the words out loud yet. You knew, on some level or another, and he knew that you felt the same way.


	3. While She Sleeps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4\. Whisper it into her hair in the middle of the night, after you’ve counted the space between her breaths and are certain she’s asleep. Shut your eyes quickly when she shifts toward you in askance. Maybe you were just sleep whispering.

“What am I drawing now?” You traced something against the side of Race’s arm, which was wrapped around your waist. He held your back flush against his chest in bed, arms wrapped around you. He liked that you would always press your arms up against his, as though you were hugging him back.

He considered. “A cat?”

“You got it,” you said, pleased. “Now?”

Race frowned. “A jacked up bird?”

“A ship!” You said it as though it was supposed to be obvious, but what he felt on his arm felt nothing like boat. Knowing that he shouldn’t say so, he tried to think of something to say. When he came up short, he decided to change the topic entirely. Race gave an exaggerated swallow, knowing that you would give a snort of laughter when his adam’s apple bobbed against the back of your head.

You squirmed. “That feels so weird.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, doing it again. “And if you keep squirming, it’ll be something very different rubbing against you.”

You gave a bark of laughter. “I’m scandalized.”

Race pressed a kiss against the back of your ear. “It’s a very scandalous business. You’ll have to tread carefully.”

You sighed happily, snuggling in a little closer. He could hear the sleep creeping in when you spoke. “I’ll be sure to watch my step.”

He smiled a little. He liked that there was nothing awkward about dating you now. He liked that you didn’t apologize when you showed up unannounced. He liked that sleeping with you sometimes really did just mean sleeping with you. He liked that he knew so much about you, but you still surprised him.

He liked that even after learning so much more about you, both good and bad things, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he loved you more than ever.

Suddenly worried that he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from saying so, Race broke the silence with a loud, clearly false snore.

“Race,” you protested with a giggle. “I’m trying to sleep.” There was some level of truth to that; it was past midnight, and the two of you were laying in bed. It wasn’t like you had been trying very hard to sleep, though.

“You have a funny way of showing it,” he scoffed. “You’ve been talking for, like, hours.”

“Fine,” you said haughtily. “Look at me, totally asleep.” With that, you went silent. Race listened to you breathe, feeling the rise and fall of your chest slow as the minutes ticked by.

He tried to follow you into sleep, but it evaded him. He wondered what he was waiting for. Not for you to say it first, certainly. He wanted to be sure that you felt it too, but he was fairly sure of that now. So why wait?

Not because he wasn’t sure.

Not because he was scared that it would change the relationship.

Not because he didn’t think the relationship was real.

Empowered by the slow breathing, he breathed it into your hair. “I love you.”

You sighed again, squeezing your arms around his a little tighter. He froze, suddenly certain that he had misjudged. You were totally awake, and he was totally toast. The middle of the night, while you were trying to sleep, was probably not the moment.

Maybe that was what he was waiting for. The right moment, when you would have no reason to doubt him.

You hadn’t moved, and your breathing hadn’t changed. You were still asleep. It had been a coincidence, so Race could bide his time some more. When he said it, you would be so blown away by how suave and gorgeous and charming he was that you wouldn’t hesitate to say it back.


	4. After a Fright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7\. Wait until something terrible has happened and you can’t not tell her anymore. Wait until she almost got hit by a car crossing Wabash against a light and after you are done cursing at the shit-for-brains cab drivers in this city, realize you are actually just terrified of living without her. Tell her with your hands shaking.

If Race was a rich man, he would have surprised you with vacations to cities on the other side of the world. He would have taken you to concerts and shows every time one caught your eye. He would have ordered the two of you desert every time you went out to eat.

Race was definitely not a rich man.

Instead of giving you luxuries and excess, he would sometimes surprise you by going to the bakery on your street before he met up with you after class. It wasn’t much, but he couldn’t control his excitement when he imagined the look on your face when you saw the bag.

He saw you scanning the crowd when you got out of class, though he was still across the street. He waved the bag in the air, knowing that you would see the bright bag before you saw him. You did, slowly looking from the bag to his face. You brightened.

You started across the street, half jogging in your eagerness to get to Race and the bag he had in hand. Race felt his own lips curl, responding to your face the way he always did. It was as though his body wasn’t his anymore. Every time he was near you, all of him belonged to you. His hands wanted to hold yours. His lips were trapped in a perpetual smile, only broken when he pressed them against yours. 

If the way your eyes lit up at the sight of him was any indicator, you felt the same way.

Race loved that you felt the same way, but in this moment, it nearly ruined him. The desire to keep eye contact meant that neither of you were paying attention to the cab that valued speed over safety. It honked angrily, but only as its tired squealed on the street and its bumper brushed against the fabric of your raincoat. 

For a moment, Race was frozen. In all of the universe, the only things that mattered were the ear-achingly loud honks and the way your coat whipped as your body moved.

Race would spend the rest of his life thanking God, the universe, the swiftness of neurons, that you had not frozen the way he had. Your coat was whipping around because as the taxi roared through the street, you jumped backwards. The car did not stop - it didn’t even slow down.

You shot Race a bewildered, sheepish grin. Race breathed out a curse, shocked, and the spell broke. He said another, bellowing obscenities after the cab. He would not remember a single one later on, but you would tell him that they had to do with the man’s mother, the size of his penis, and how terrible he was at pleasuring his partner.

You put a gentle hand on his arm. “Race, it’s okay -”

“It isn’t okay!” His hands were trembling. How were you so calm? “He could have killed you!”

“It was my fault,” you said. 

Race drew you to him in a tight, desperate hug. He buried one hand in your hair, no doubt filling it with snarls and tangles, and the other hand crushed your body against his. “He should have been more careful. He could have killed you. You could have died.”

“I didn’t die,” you said. He could hear the smile in your voice as you wrapped your arms around his neck. “I’m okay.”

“You could have died. I could have lost you.” The words just kept bouncing around his head, echoing through him like a scary story that would have given him nightmares as a kid. He could have lost you. 

No more chocolate milk and donuts on bad days. No more watching stupid Hallmark movies because they made you laugh. No more slow dancing in the kitchen, swallowing your laughter with kisses when he stepped on your toes. Not more going to the mall to force each other to try on the ugliest clothes. No more cuddling at night, laughing until sleep stole you away. That wasn’t a life worth having. You were a part of everything he loved about his life.

“I love you,” he gasped into your hair. It was a half sob. “I love you, and you could have died. I love you.”

You ran your hands through his hair. “Race, honey, it’s fine. Race, I’m right here. See? I’m right here. I’m okay.”

You were. You were right there, holding him as tightly as he held you. He was trembling like a leaf, but you were grounded. Maybe that was just for his benefit, but he loved you for it all the same. “Right,” he croaked. “Right. You’re here.”

“Right,” you said. “Everything is okay. I know that you’re panicking, but nothing is wrong. You don’t have to be scared. I’m right here.”

“Okay,” he said. He slowly disentangled himself from you. He really did belong to you. All of him protested at the distance, even if you did keep your hand in his.

You grinned, a little shaky, but clearly wanting to distract him. “So, what’s in the bag?”

The bag was truly, ridiculously crumpled now. He hadn’t realized he still had it. It was still trapped in very white knuckles. His fingers ached when he unclenched them. “Muffins.”

“I love muffins! Let’s go home and eat. They just put Thor Ragnarok on Netflix, so it’s a good day for a movie night, right?” You led him back to his apartment, rubbing soothing circles into his hand.

It wasn't until later, combing his fingers through your hair in an attempt to calm his heart, that Race realized that you hadn’t told him that you loved him too because you didn't believe him. You thought that he had been panicking, which was true, but was not the basis of the words. 

You hadn’t believed him.


	5. Unabashedly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8\. Say it deliberately, your tongue a springboard for every syllable. Over coffee, brushing your teeth side-by-side, as you turn off the light to go to sleep - it doesn’t matter where. Do not adorn it with extra words like “I think” or “I might.” Do not sigh heavily as if admitting it were a burden instead of the most joyous thing you’ve ever done. Look her in the eyes and pray, heart thumping wildly, that she will turn to you and say “I love you too.”

It sat there on the wall, unmoving. Race felt like it was watching him back, and though he wanted to look away and forget about it, the only thing scarier than knowing a spider is there is losing track of it.

If he went to squish it, it would probably jump at him.

Its children would come after him to get revenge.

Or, worse, its body would break and release hundreds of smaller spiders into the room.

This was definitely not a problem for Race. Race would probably die before nightfall if he squished that spider. No, this was a job for a real hero.

“Y/N! Y/N, I need you!”

You walked into the kitchen. “You should have listened when I said that you couldn’t make the cake by yourself. I told you that you didn’t know how - Have you even started?”

“I couldn’t,” he said gravely. “I couldn’t start the cake. I could not start your birthday cake - which you cannot make for yourself, since that would make you look like a huge freaking loser who doesn’t have a wonderful boyfriend to make it for her - because that spider on the wall will probably jump into the batter and lay eggs. The surprise should be in the presents, not in the cake, Y/N.”

You looked at the spider, first raising your eyebrows, then grinning. “That would be awful.”

“I needed the muscle in our relationship to come take care of it,” he said hopefully.

You rolled up your sleeves, mock serious. “I knew that carrying those pizza boxes would pay off.” You grabbed a napkin and squished the spider, quickly cleaning off the wall. No fuss. No complaints. Race needed you, and though it would have seemed stupid to somebody else, you had done what he needed. 

“Now my cake is saved,” you said lightly. You grinned, humming contentedly when Race came and pressed a long kiss against your forehead. He leaned his forehead against yours, looking you in the eye. Your smile faded a little, softening.

“I love you.” He did not say the words quietly this time. He was not drunk, panicking, or praying for you not to hear them. 

“I know,” you said, eyes sparkling. He waited for you to continue, but you only grinned smugly at him.   
“You can only pull a Han Solo when your life is at stake, Y/N. Actually, only Han Solo has the right to pull that stunt -” You swallowed his outrage with a kiss, effectively soothing his nerves.

“I love you too,” you said against his lips. “Really.”

“I know,” Race said with a lopsided grin. “Really.”

“Now,” you said with a clap of your hands. “Let’s get started on my cake. My birthday is coming, and I don’t trust you with this.”

“You can’t make your own cake! It’s against the rules!” He followed you over to the counter, halfheartedly wrapping his arms around the eggs and the jog of milk. You were right - he had no idea how to make a cake. That didn’t change the injustice of accepting your help.

“I’ll supervise, then,” you sighed. “Get to work, boy.”

He did, following your instructions without letting your hands touch the ingredients. When he was cracking the eggs, you wrapped your arms around his waist in a hug. He grinned. “I love you.”

You sighed happily, making a warm pocket in the back of his shirt. “I love you too.”

He didn’t think he would ever get tired of saying it, or of hearing it.


End file.
